Achilles His Armour

by Peter Green

  Cleon died before the retreat was well begun; an ignoble death, and one his troops would have given much not to have seen. When Clearidas and his Spartans’ bore down on the retreating column the Athenians turned and faced them resolutely. But Cleon’s nerve broke; he fled away alone, gasping and calling for help, a great Thracian swordsman bounding along behind him. Then he caught his foot in the uneven ground and fell. In an instant the Thracian was on him, savagely stabbing down at his back. Above all the noise of battle the voice that had once dominated the rostrum rose in a piercing shriek, and men halted in their tracks at the sound of it. The Thracian swung up his sword in both hands over the bowed figure and struck with all his force. The head, still in its glittering helmet with the scarlet plume, rolled a few paces from the body. The Thracian uttered a great howl of triumph, and an answering cheer echoed back from the Spartans who had paused to watch. Clearidas leaned on his spear and said to his lieutenant with cold contempt: ‘It was the death he deserved. If he had not had it at our hands, his own countrymen would have meted it out to him sooner or later.’ He spat and added: ‘If it had lain in my hands he would have had the hangman’s rope. I am glad it was not a Spartan soiled his sword on him.’ Then the attack closed in once more.

  The remains of the Athenian army had rallied on the rising ground. It was not till Clearidas sent the archers and cavalry against them that they finally broke and fled, stripping off their armour as they went, pursued and cut down by sword and arrow, making for the uncertain safety of the hills and the long road back to Eion. Then at last Clearidas returned to Amphipolis to bear the news to Brasidas.

  He found him propped up on a couch in a house close by the gate whence he had made his victorious sally. The fatal arrow was still in his breast; he gave Clearidas his old mocking grin when he learnt that Sparta had won a glorious victory.

  ‘And Cleon?’ he asked.

  Clearidas told him the manner of his death.

  Brasidas said, with great effort: ‘It is all over, then.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Cleon is dead . . . and I am dying. You will get little profit . . . from this . . . glorious victory.’ He coughed horribly. A trickle of blood ran out of the corner of his mouth and was lost in his dusty matted beard. ‘The Government . . . only let me go on here . . . as long as I could persuade them . . . that I could hold the peninsula myself. They were . . . a little frightened of me.’ He smiled weakly. ‘And Cleon . . . Cleon was very . . . valuable. The one Athenian . . . who wished the war to continue. Now it’ll all be over . . . in a month or so. You didn’t know that Nicias . . . had been writing to Sparta . . . asking for terms? This was the only thing . . . that stopped it. Now . . . it’s finished.’ His hand moved feebly to the arrow, which rose and fell with his laboured breathing. ‘I have won . . . a completely useless battle,’ he said. The circle of faces round him was shocked and motionless. The great hazel eyes began to glaze. ‘You’d better prepare yourselves . . . for the blessings of peace. I’m glad . . . I shall not be there to see it.’ Then with one last effort he plucked the arrow from the deep wound. The blood flowed out fast after it. His eyes fluttered and closed. From outside came the tramp of marching feet as the Spartans returned from the pursuit. The townsfolk began to cheer them; uncertainly at first, then with tumultuous abandon. But in the silent room no one moved.

  • • • • •

  During this month of disaster there was another death, in a quiet room in Athens, far from the sounds of battle. Since the day he had quarrelled with his son, Hipponicus’ health had rapidly declined. He had another attack, and just survived it; but the third proved fatal. Now he lay in bed, grey in the face, gasping for breath, his family gathered about him. But he had not the strength to speak to them.

  The winter light filtered bleakly through the half-opened casements, picking out the rich inlaid furniture, the woven tapestry, scarlet and blue and gold, with which the chamber was hung. During the long painful minutes when nothing was to be heard except the old man’s rasping breathing, Alcibiades tore his eyes away from those gaunt blue hands that plucked at the sheet, and studied this tapestry absorbedly, as if by doing so he could detach himself from the scene in which he was so unwilling a participant. The birth of Athena; the battles of the Centaurs and Lapiths. One arras was from Crete, another from Egypt: fascinatedly Alcibiades studied these outlandish figures, with their red faces and loin cloths, so alien to the art he knew. Hipponicus, despite his old-fashioned ways, had been a great collector. But then he had had enough property to indulge his most eccentric fancy had he so wished. And at the thought Alcibiades glanced sideways, with mingled exasperation and shame, to where Hipparete knelt beside her father, tears staining her pale wax-like face.

  Since the death of their child husband and wife had scarcely spoken to one another; the brief hour of intimacy to which its birth bore witness might never have occurred. For weeks afterwards Hipparete had been desperately ill. Now, slowly, she was recovering; thinner than ever, dark shadows under her eyes, she had begun to turn to her household duties again. There was an indomitable streak in her nature which Alcibiades had never suspected; her silent persistence disturbed him in a way he could not begin to analyse. Yet at the same time he felt her as an affront to his manhood. She had been told she could never safely bear another child. If Alcibiades had little real affection for his wife he took an almost fanatical pride in his line; was it to die out because this wisp of a girl lacked the strength to breed? Gradually, perversely, he came to desire what was now forbidden to him. Yet something always held him back; there was an unspoken armed truce between them, an acceptance of individuality. But only Hipparete knew with increasing certainty that it was her love that he feared; and the knowledge lent her a patience beyond her strength.

  Callias watched them both, his eyes half-veiled, his plump hands trembling uncontrollably. When he had been told his father was dying, he knew he could not support a death-bed scene without being drunk. But he must not be too drunk. In his caution he had drunk too little, and now his nerves were jangling and the least noise caused him agony. For his sister he had nothing but contempt; for her formidable and unpredictable husband, fear and impotent hate. He cared little for his father; but at this moment he would have done anything in his power to keep the old man alive. The vast inheritance he had coveted for so many years now seemed no more than a snare to betray him into Alcibiades’ powerful hands. His brother-in-law would lay his hands on that money somehow. He had many friends, great influence. Callas writhed in the knowledge of his own weakness, torn between avarice and craven fear. It would not be beyond possibility for Alcibiades to become . . . impatient. The thing could be easily done. A hired assassin, a blow in a dark street . . . He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he did not notice when, as silently as a guttering candle, his father’s life flickered and was snuffed out.

  When, later, they were all leaving the house, Callias hurried away, hoping to avoid Alcibiades. But Alcibiades’ hand fell on his shoulder, and his smooth voice held infinite menace as he said: ‘I must speak with you a moment, Callias.’ With his other hand he gestured brusquely to Hipparete to go home. But Hipparete said, in a calm and level voice: ‘I will stay with my father a while first.’ There was no defiance in the words. Callias stared incredulously, expecting an outburst of fury from Alcibiades, But he merely shrugged, and turned back to Callias again. They walked slowly together down the road.

  ‘It is the matter of ten talents,’ said Alcibiades at length. He made no reference to the scene they had both witnessed.

  ‘But that was paid at your marriage. . .’ Callias was shrill, anxious to defend himself. The business had started even sooner than he had feared.

  ‘Yes, indeed. But perhaps you remember the clause that was inserted into the agreement over your name?’

  Callias stared at, him. ‘The birth of a son . . . But . . . this child was born dead . . .’

  ‘Agreed. I remember nothing in the
document about the—er—condition of the child at birth. My wife has borne me a son. Alive or dead, it’s all one to me. You have inherited your father’s fortunes. You must expect certain obligations with them.’

  Callias babbled: ‘This is . . . monstrous, indecent. Have you no respect for the dead, for your own honour, your wife’s . . .?’

  Alcibiades cut him short. ‘No less than you, I imagine,’ he observed coldly. ‘I advise you not to speak of honour. I know more of your affairs than you imagine. I suggest that you go home, have . . . well . . perhaps two more flagons of wine—you needed it badly in there, didn’t you?—and then write me a draft to your money-changer. I shall mention the transaction to no one unless you choose to.’ He made as if to leave, turned, and said, over his shoulder: ‘I advise you to deliver the draft within three days. I should very much dislike to be forced to put any kind of pressure on my own brother-in-law.’ Then he was gone. Half an hour later, in a market humming with the news, he first heard of the defeat at Amphipolis, the deaths of Cleon and Brasidas.

  That evening Callias did two things. He made out a promissory note for ten talents, and dispatched a slave with it to Alcibiades’ house; this done, he summoned witnesses and a notary, and drew up a document declaring that in the event of his dying prematurely, by any kind of violence other than that occasioned in battle (this caused some amusement to those who knew his record), his inheritance should pass, not to his next-of-kin, but to the State Treasury, for the benefit of the Athenian people. There were few present who failed to draw the correct inference.

  Chapter 21

  In the spring of the following year Brasidas’ dying words were fulfilled. All through the winter, to Alcibiades’ chagrin, it was Nicias who patiently worked for a final peace settlement. Day after day, discarding his old diffidence, he went about Athens, rallying the people to his way of thinking. He began with his own friends from the aristocracy, and the old tired men who wanted nothing except to die in peace, and the farmers who were beginning, with infinite labour, to rebuild their farms and renew their burnt crops and lopped olives. Afterwards he approached many who had inclined to Cleon, individually, holding private sessions with them far into the night. All the time he was maintaining constant and friendly relations with the diplomats who now reached Athens frequently from Sparta.

  Alcibiades was in something of a quandary. The leadership of the war party had passed to the despised lamp-maker Hyperbolus; and in any case Alcibiades was himself more disposed to an alliance of power with Sparta. But that it should be Nicias and not himself who was making it cut him to the quick. At first he tried to damage Nicias’ reputation. He hinted that the old man was anxious for peace in order to conceal his own shortcomings as a general; but war-weariness had become so prevalent that his insinuations fell on deaf ears. Then, more boldly, he tried another move. He was aware that Argos, for thirty years tied by a treaty of neutrality; would soon be free to ally herself as she chose. Alcibiades spread a rumour that Sparta was attempting to secure peace with Athens in order to deal with Argos first in safety, and then attack Athens alone.

  There was a good deal of plausibility in this suggestion; but once again it fell on deaf ears. Peace Athens would have, at any price: and she got it at last, in the spring, when Nicias triumphantly put his signature to the treaty which had cost him so much intriguing, so many sleepless nights. Yet when Alcibiades examined the terms of this treaty more closely, he began to be glad that it was not he who had made it.

  It was, as he observed to his friends, a remarkable document. First, it was renewable annually. Secondly, it appeared to have been concluded without the consultation of any of Sparta’s allies. The Spartans were doing now what their ambassador had refused to do for Cleon: in order to get back their prisoners they were bargaining away with fine carelessness cities in which they had no personal interest. In one respect, indeed, they promised what they clearly could not guarantee; the return to Athens of Amphipolis. Clearidas, after some arguing, agreed to evacuate his Spartan troops; but the inhabitants firmly declared against returning to their Athenian allegiance, and there was nothing Nicias could do about it. As a retaliatory gesture he took the other city in the peninsula, Scione, killed all the men, and sold the women and children into slavery.

  But worse was to come. The Spartan government saw the all too likely possibility of Argos assuming the leadership of an independent coalition. They therefore forced Nicias, bewildered by the turn events had taken, into concluding a fifty years’ alliance with Sparta herself—the enemy he had fought for over ten years. Honest patriotism was shocked both at Athens and Sparta by this blatant piece of political opportunism: only Alcibiades, coolly watching each fresh development, saw how it might be turned to his eventual advantage.

  Yet even this desperate measure failed to give either Athens or Sparta control of the situation. As the days dragged by, laden with rumour and suspicion, all eyes began to turn to Argos. But Argos, as Alcibiades said later, behaved like a spoilt courtesan who lets her suitors bid for her favours. Corinth tried desperately hard during the summer to tempt her to form a third alliance independent of both Athens and Sparta, together with Megara and Boeotia. Argos was a natural democracy; only the most urgent necessity could have driven the strong oligarchies of Corinth and Boeotia into alliance with her. And Boeotia, indeed, refused to commit herself. To inquiries from the Corinthian politicians she returned bland but negative answers. Her sympathies were all with Sparta; and though during the winter she was nearly tempted into succumbing, the scheme came to nothing.

  But the very possibility of her doing so threw the Ephors at Sparta into a panic. Boeotia was their strongest ally; and yet they had to placate the suspicions of the volatile Athenians. There were many of them, indeed, who would have been glad to see hostilities resumed. So once more Spartan agents were sent to Boeotia, and the Boeotian government struck a good bargain with them—a separate and individual treaty of affiance with Sparta. This directly contravened the terms of the general peace. A blind man could not fail to see that the balance of power among the Peloponnesian States had been destroyed by this coalition of the two strongest oligarchic powers in Greece.

  And Argos, free at last from the necessity of diplomacy towards her natural enemies, ready to welcome all the smaller states that Sparta had carelessly wronged, a free asylum for deserting Helots or Messenians, lay waiting in the northern Peloponnese; waiting for a word from the one man in Athens who would dare to offer her the fulfilment of her own desires. The peace treaty had been broken once; now it could be broken again.

  • • • • •

  Like the tide that is governed by obscure lunar forces, public opinion was once more swinging against Nicias. The amateur politician in his shop or at the street corner was too biased or impatient to unravel the whole thread of the complicated events of the past year: he only saw isolated facts, positive and undeniable. They made a separate peace with Boeotia, the blacksmith would shout, banging on his anvil for emphasis. And the loungers in the forge would nod their heads and mutter, while the glow of the fire faded for want of a pair of hands to blow the bellows. They pulled down our fort at Panactum, complained the fishmonger, shouting against the Market Inspector’s bell; and the fat baker’s wife who kept the next stall, piling her loaves up into a graceful pyramid, replied, It’s all the doing of that old fool Nicias. Wandering through the City, listening to the gossip, Alcibiades saw his chance and took it. He was thirty years of age: he would make his first public speech in the Assembly.

  It was not a very good speech, but it made up in venom what it lacked in eloquence. He became snarled in the middle of a long sentence, and had to begin it again; his tongue seemed too big for his mouth. But his apparent sincerity and the receptiveness of his audience carried him through. Nicias, arriving late, was in time to hear the peroration of a violent attack on himself.

  ‘Do you remember Sphacteria, citizens?’ Alcibiades was asking. A roar of affirmation answered him. He c
aught sight of Nicias as he sat down, and stretched out a pointing finger. ‘There’s the man who yielded up his command to a civilian. Nicias is a pious man. He wouldn’t take the field against his Spartan friends. He waits till someone else captures them, and then gives them back.’ It was true that Nicias had returned the Spartan prisoners; but under the terms of the peace he could have done little else. Alcibiades went on: ‘You’d think such a man could have used his influence with our . . . late enemies—I beg your pardon, Nicias, our trusted allies—to prevent them going behind our back to traffic with Boeotia or Corinth. But nothing Sparta does is wrong in Nicias’ eyes. Yet if any other Greek state—’ he did not say Argos: but all present knew to what he referred—‘if any other state, I say, wishes to conclude an alliance with us, Nicias will have none of it unless he has Spartan approval for such a move . . .’ He went on for another ten minutes in this vein; and at the end received a tremendous ovation. Flushed and excited, he descended from the platform: the crowd pressed round him, congratulating him, slapping him on the back. For the first time in his life he knew the intoxication of power. It was only later, alone in his house, that he realised what an irrevocable step he had taken.

  With Cleon dead, and Brasidas dead, the whole shape of the conflict was changed: not only in Greece at large, but for the internal struggle of parties in Athens herself. I have declared myself against Nicias, he thought; yet I have no wish to step into Cleon’s shoes. His lips twitched with amusement as he thought of Hyperbolus; but he knew that the lamp-maker, afraid for his own position, would raise as much popular feeling against him as he could. Who can give the dog the bigger bone? Hyperbolus can promise them Sicily; the Gods willing, I can give them Argos. And if Argos, then all the small northern states of the Peloponnese with her: Elis, Mantinea . . . they all have their private quarrels with Sparta. A solid bloc across the south of the Isthmus, a sure protection against the ravages of a Spartan army. With a little persuasion on that score I could swing the farmers over as well. Over to what? He remembered Axiochus saying, five years before: ‘Your only hope is to form another party.’ Now, it seemed, the time had come. Yet an open party had to have a declared political line . . . What then? A club, a private faction. More could be done that way. A personal allegiance rather than a public one, working outside the clumsy system of the Assembly, yet using it for its own ends.